


The Boat

by thewindupbird



Category: Brothers of the Head (2005)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 06:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11618205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewindupbird/pseuds/thewindupbird
Summary: Two brothers, a storm, a connection that runs too deep





	The Boat

**Author's Note:**

> for tickingandtwill

Perhaps if it hadn't been for Barry breaking his second mug that morning, simply because he'd decided, for whatever reason, that he was going to be difficult (Tom knew it was because Robbie was up the mainland with Bert, and had been since last night, and Barry didn't like it one bit. And nor did their father, for that matter.)

Anyway, the way Albert had looked at Barry as his tea spilled all onto the floor had been enough to send him shoving the bench back that he and Tom sat on, nearly causing the two of them to lose their balance. They struggled for a moment, Tom didn't want to leave, knew it would just make it worse if they left now, but the way Barry's eyes caught his, upset and exasperated and absolutely furious on the surface of it all made him relent, and he ducked his head so that he didn't have to see their father's face as the two of them escaped the kitchen into the misty morning sun.

Their father called Barry back, but Barry didn't listen and neither Tom nor Albert had expected him to. The long beach-grass cut into their bare feet as they scaled the dunes, both of them scrabbling on all fours once or twice to best the sand that determinedly tried to pull them back down.

Tom waited, just moving along with him in silence, wishing he'd eaten his breakfast faster so that he wasn't still hungry as Barry practically dragged him across the stony beach to the little wooden jetty where the boat bumped gently against the edge of it, which was wrapped round and round with rope which had been there so long that sea-plants Tom couldn't name grew thick on it.

"Barry," Tom finally said just before they passed the jetty, grabbing onto his brother's arm and setting his heels in the sand. Barry jerked to a halt, but refused to look at him, as though he'd been the one to get angry. They stood there in silence for almost a minute, Tom watching his brother look out over the water. It had only been in the last few years that Tom noticed that their faces were different. At eleven something about the set of Barry's jaw had changed, and Tom knew it had to do with that thing in his head, that thing that talked to him, but now, at sixteen, it was more than just the way he held himself, more than just the set of his mouth, it was something else. His features were sharper now, than Tom's were, his cheeks hollowed and something much too serious about his eyes. The way they were sometimes very pale, and far away. He might have been jealous, that Barry had been the one to lose the childishness first while his face still maintained that boyish softness, if he didn't think that it made Barry look… what was the word?... It made him want to wrap his arm around him tighter, pull him closer. It made him want to protect him, but he knew Barry hated that.

"Barry," Tom said, kicking at the sand, drawing his name out in annoyance, and finally his brother broke from that stiffness he'd been holding and let out a sigh that was far too upset for what had happened in the house, so Tom knew that it couldn't have just been that.

He glanced up, and Barry's eyes were red. He was struggling not to cry, and Tom's stomach knotted. He hadn't cried for years now. Not since they were just eleven and he'd told Tom the horrible things that It was whispering to him when he looked so far away. He'd thought Tom would be angry, but he hadn't been. It had scared him, sure, but he knew, had always known, that it wasn't Barry fault.

Barry glanced at him and, too full of stubborn pride to wipe his hands over his eyes his eyes wandered over the water and the jetty, and what they could _just_ see of the feather through all the fog coming in off the sea. Tom's fingers tightened around Barry's arm.

It was almost a relief when he moved forward, finally, and began to untie the boat from the dock. "Barry—wh—Barry's we're not supposed to," Tom said, leaning over with him because he had to.

He weathered the disgusted look that Barry threw his way, inches from his face. Tom sighed, and tried to stop his hands.

"Don't!" Barry said, clawing him off, hands connecting hard with is shoulders, but not shoving him.

"S'just gonna make it worse! Da's not even—This'll make it worse," Tom said, even though he knew it wasn't about that at all.

"I don't care! I don't care what Da' thinks or, or you. I hate you, I wish you weren't my brother!"

The outburst startled them both and Tom felt the jetty reel strangely under him for a moment as though the sea had dislodged it, even when it hadn't. Barry had never said that to him before. Not right out, and he himself had never played with it, that fragile place between them that was filled with frustration and bitterness and the shameful knowledge that this, as they were, it was unfair.

Barry was staring at him, eyes wide and startled, but not close to tears anymore. Almost dazedly he turned away and began untying the boat again and Tom didn't stop him. He barely noticed as the two of them clambered into it and Barry shoved hard away from the dock. Neither of them moved for the paddles at the bottom, their feet in the shallow rainwater from last night, their jeans soaking through from the dew on the seats. The boat was weighted down at their end because they had to sit together.

Tom just stared down at the waves as they lapped against the side of the boat as Barry diligently picked a splinter out of the palm of his hand. The tide was out, and slowly they floated away from the shore, wave by wave. This didn't scare them. Never had. They didn't understand the ocean so much as the water was a home to them, just as much the marshes. Getting lost out on the ocean was never something that had frightened them. It wasn't as though they would ever be alone.

Slowly the shock of what Barry had said stopped twisting and writhing in his chest and his belly. He knew he hadn't meant it. But he also knew that it had been all Barry saying that.

It was when his brother shifted that he knew that he was sorry. His foot slid up against Tom's in the water at the bottom of the boat, and then it was his hand, fingers of his left hand touching Tom's left arm.

"Didn't mean it," Barry mumbled, his face tilted down, lower lip thrust out a little in a sulk, and suddenly, unexpectedly, he was angry. Angry at him for saying that, when he himself had gone sixteen years without saying it once… so he didn't say anything.

He felt his brother's body lean up against him, fingers more insistent now, sliding over his forearm which Tom tensed at the contact. "Don't," Barry murmured. "Don't be like that, I didn't mean it…" He could feel Baz's eyes on him, expectant and, he knew if he looked, a little worried. "…I'm sorry," Barry finally said. "Tommy-"

Tom finally shrugged his shoulder and turned towards him, his head still lowered. Barry was the only one who ever called him that, and it always did something—it always made him want to be close to him no matter what stupid thing Barry'd just done.

He reached up and shoved him, not wanting to make a big deal of it. He knew the anger would go away. It always did. "What's wrong with you?" he asked, and he sounded like he was teasing, but he wasn't

Barry lowered his eyes. "Dunno… I—everyone's always—m'always doin' somethin' wrong."

Tom couldn't deny that. He knew that Barry knew that he always got attention that way. He knew that Barry did it because when his talking and touches didn't work, it always drew someone's eyes to him, and Tom knew why he did that too, but he didn't want to think about it. That thing in his head… Barry sometimes said it was like he wasn't there at all when It was there… he wanted to make sure that there was always someone thinking about him, touching him, talking to him… because that meant that he wasn't alone. That meant that it couldn't get to him. Not fully.

But he couldn't tell Barry that. Barry knew anyway.

"You're not always doing somethin' wrong," he said, and he knew Barry was listening to him even though he pretended he wasn't, looking back out across the ocean to where the house was just visible through all the mist.

He leaned forward and pressed his head against Barry's chest where he could hear his heartbeat, his arm tightening around his narrow waist, and they sat like that for a moment, their bodies rocking with the boat. Barry sat very still until Tom tugged at him again, and finally he felt his brother's face in his hair.

"Sometimes maybe it'd be good to go somewhere jus' me'n'you," he said, and Tom could feel his lips against his hair, but Barry didn't pull away.

"Hm," Tom said, non-commitally. He shifted and sat up after a moment, after the tension had faded from Barry's shoulders and Barry caught his eyes as they both pulled back. He looked sad and Tom didn't know what to say to make it better… he didn't want to be around him all day, moping like he was. He darted forward to kiss him on the cheek, playfully. They used to when they were little, and it had always made Barry laugh until their Da' started telling them to stop it when they were nine or ten.

He hadn't expected Barry to turn his head, and their lips brushed and Tom pulled back slowly, uncertain, because that had never happened before. It was Barry's impish grin that made him realise what that had been. Da' didn't like it, them kissing each other on the cheek, so why not take it up a step? Barry was angry at Da', and he was going to get him back. It was childish, but Tom understood. He smiled a little crookedly, his eyes still a little uncertain, but he didn't have much more time to think about it because suddenly Barry's mouth was on his again and his fingers gripped the seat of the boat.

It felt good, strangely, it was intimate and close, something neither of them was a stranger to and _oh,_ Barry had sucked Tom's lower lip into his mouth, then kissed him again, but it had sent a jolt straight between his thighs, but Barry wasn't giving him time to think. He never did. His tongue was in his mouth, tasting like tea and toast and something just— like Barry.

It was clumsily, but they were doing it now because it made them feel—it was better than an apology in words for what Barry had said, it was closer than that, it was solid, physical proof that he hadn't meant it. And it was all right until Barry sucked at Tom's tongue, and his hand slid around to the inside of his leg, just over his knee, to keep from sliding away from him on the wet seats.

Tom pulled back suddenly as the front of his jeans tightened and the boat pitched too far to the right, both of them grappling at something to correct the balance before they fell into the sea. It wasn't summer yet, and the ocean was bitter cold.

The oars clattered at the bottom of the boat, and both boys were frozen, Barry gripping the inside of Tom's thigh and the other side, while Tom held onto his side, and the seat. They caught each other's eyes and burst out laughing because they knew they'd looked foolish. The boat was still rocking precariously and suddenly Barry's mouth was on Tom's again.

"Mm, wait," he said, aware, again of the fact that he was hard. Barry cocked his head at him. "What, I thought—it was nice, wasn't it?" Tom glanced down. He hadn't meant to, but Barry followed his eyes and he blushed red. He didn't look at him, but he heard that smug little breath of a laugh, and "Bloody hell, Tom,"

"Shut up," he said, but nothing more. He chanced a glance upward and he didn't like that look of growing determination on Barry's face. He looked too serious. And he was stubborn as a bloody mule. Tom cast desperately for a change of subject before his brother got any ideas, but he couldn't… couldn't really think of anything but the fact that he was hard and that— _oh God_ the fact that suddenly Barry's hand was between his legs, warm through the fabric and pressing up against him.

"Barry!" Tom said, and Barry looked up sharply. "No, c'mon," he said, and then his fingers were undoing Tom's trousers.

"Barry—Barry, no!"

"Why not?" he asked, and Tom both hated and envied that perfectly reasoning tone he'd adopted. "S'not like anyone can see us. Anyway, I've seen it before,"

"But-"

"It'll be better than doing it yourself. Haven't you ever wondered what—like—what it would be like for someone else…?"

Tom knew that Barry knew he had. They'd talked about the girls in the magazines Robbie sometimes brought home.

"But-"

"Shut up," Barry said, pulling his hand away, but Tom's jeans were undone now. "D'you want me to or not?"

Tom swallowed, not looking at him. He shifted uncomfortably, but not because it was Barry, but because now he was thinking about it, and that made it worse. Barry touched the inside of his leg again, and waited.

It took a moment, but Tom finally nodded and, expertly, as though he'd been doing it for ages, Barry slipped his hand underneath the waistband of Tom's shorts and began to move it over him slowly. Tom had shut his eyes, but he always knew when Barry was looking at him.

The strokes became shorter and quicker and he heard Barry's breathing quicken, felt how fast his heart was beating against his arm.

"Ba—Barry, I'm gonna—I'm—wait,"

"Shh," his brother whispered, his chin on Tom's shoulder, and Tom came. It wasn't like when he did it himself, and it took him a moment to recover. Barry pulled his hand out and leaned over him dunking it into the sea.

When he pulled back, he grinned at him, shaking his hand dry absently and Tom leaned forward and kissed him again, almost gently this time before he did his jeans up again. They were quiet for a moment, neither of them saying anything, both of them looking down at the water in the bottom of the boat which was reflecting the sky.

"Did you want-?" Tom began, but just then the sky opened up and it started to pour. It was cold, and they both gasped with shock and grabbed for the paddles, laughing as they clumsily tried to fit them into the rings on the boat, already soaked to the bone.

The tied it to the dock, feet slipping on the wood of the jetty and ran for the house, bursting inside dripping and getting sand everywhere.

Albert Howe appeared in the doorway and Barry's laughter ended abruptly. Both boys straightened up, but the man was holding back a smile, they could see it. Tom felt Barry relax next to him. "Go upstairs and have a bath before you two catch your deaths," he said before disappearing into his study and shutting the door.

"Yes sir," Barry whispered in a vague mocking tone, and Tom snorted with laughter, and together they headed upstairs, quiet again. They were always quiet in the house.

It was funny how it wasn't awkward, it wasn't strange at all when Barry's hands slid over his cheeks when they reached the bathroom. Or how it felt perfectly normal, the two of them laughing quietly – everything funnier now that they had to be quiet as they undressed and Tom's fingers brushed gently against him, hearing the breath rush out of him in a startled little rush. Their eyes met, and twin grins flittered over their faces before they both became serious again.

It was like a game, somehow. The two of them standing in the bathroom while the water ran, unchecked to their right, feeling the press of Barry's chest against his as he touched him the way Barry had touched him in the boat, both of them breathing little laughs because they knew it was supposed to be embarrassing, but it wasn't embarrassing, but they'd always liked that, in a way…

When it was just them, together, and everything between them was so clearly understood.


End file.
